A Familiar Dream
by Alain Millon
Copyright © 2009 Alain Millon. All rights reserved.
Today I felt pass over me
A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
Charles Baudelaire
Again, the painting would have changed ever so slightly during the night. Maximilian Dorfhauser was sure of it as it had happened night after night during the past few months. He tossed, turned, opened his eyes, closed them and tried to picture a serene country scene. Green hills, a summer breeze, haystacks, a bird song would make him find sleep. He thought he could. He had to. Alone in this landscape, he would eventually see her silhouette appear on the horizon. He could never see her face. The sun would be too brilliant and squinting could not permit him to distinguish her traits. Other times she would be walking along the shadows at the edge of the forest. He wanted to cry out and attract her attention but no sound came out.
Now awake, he looked at the alarm clock his parents had given him years ago. The fluorescent hands marked three o’clock as the constant tick tock broke the silence of the night. Restless, he decided to get out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, he sat at the edge of the bed for a few minutes. He sighed, went to the kitchen, struck a match, turned the knob until the blue gas flame came to life and placed a pan full of water for his morning coffee. Rituals, he thought. Life is made up of rituals that become a routine, killing the soul.
Holding a cup in his right hand, he made his way to the studio in the back of the house. He turned the light on and saw the back of the painting resting on the easel. Here she was. In a minute he would see her. First he looked at the works he had been unable to complete since he had started to work on “her” painting. Every day, he promised himself to complete those pieces before returning to the canvas, which he termed the “never-ending” work. He had not done anything else in the last five months but adding layer after layer, retouching and trying new techniques that could bring a satisfactory result. He painted an average of fourteen hours a day. Yet, he was still displeased with the product of his efforts.
He stepped to the easel as he closed his eyes, carefully went around it, and finally looked at the canvas. The back of a woman’s head and shoulders faced the viewer. To her right, the moonlight streamed through an open window and reflected on her skin and dark hair. Her head was ever so slightly tilted to the left. She seemed to be looking at a person’s reflection in a mirror, a whitish background shadow unrecognizable to the artist who had added it.
“You have moved again,” he whispered. He had tried to prove it scientifically by placing tiny marks on the painting so that the next morning he could measure if the distance to the central figure had changed. He never could as if the marks had moved along with the rest of the figure. What would have been imperceptible to all was obvious to him, the artist, the creator. She had moved.
He remembered why he had started the painting. He had woken up at dawn with a picture engraved in his brain, that, which he had tried to replicate during those long months. He had been successful in achieving the intended result at first. However, soon thereafter, he noticed the alterations. Night after night, the same occurred. Sometimes it was the way she was holding her head. Other times, one of her shoulders would have slumped. Every morning a new change would confirm his hypothesis. He knew it did not make sense, had questioned his own sanity, but was certain the figure he had painted was alive in some way. He thought of a sick joke someone was playing on him. He slept on the couch in his studio for a while. He placed it against the door in case someone had come in to change the picture. No one broke in, but, during the few minutes he went into a slumber, the figure once again had moved.
Max wanted to share this with someone but recently had isolated himself. It happened naturally, little by little. He was a well-known artist who had shown his work throughout the world. He could live off his labor and considered himself lucky when compared to thousands who had talent but no money to show for it. Because of this, many visitors came to his home. He had granted a few interviews in the last few years, but since the beginning of this ordeal Max had not responded to most inquiries. He did not own a computer, a telephone, a television or any of the necessary contraptions of the moment. Max prized his peace above all else and made sure everyone knew it. He always said, “If you want to reach me, send me a note for the price of a stamp.” He would then dutifully answer those. He lived away from the city in a small farmhouse he had remodeled, and once in a while a neighbor would drop by mostly to have a drink, a break in the loneliness so common in the countryside.
Ever since he had noticed the mysterious movements of the subject in the painting, he had pondered as to the possible psychological causes of the phenomenon. He had become a loner who did not ever seek companionship. When he was younger, he had imagined finding true love, never ending bliss, two souls joined at the hip. After three marriages and many a torrid affair, he had but given up on finding the perfect mate and realized he had to be content with the life he led. It was comfortable and predictable. A conversation with an occasional visiting friend fulfilled his social needs. Once a week, he walked tothe village to get his groceries and had a meaningless exchange of words with several villagers who, after a few years, had accepted him as he was, an eccentric artist who had traveled all over the world. Because of this they nicknamed him “The Gypsy”.
Once more, despite the early hour, Max corrected the painting. He worked the whole canvas over so that it looked exactly as it did the day he had completed it. He knew that tonight would be no different, and tomorrow would be spent in unnecessary labor. He could see no end to this. What was the point, he wondered.
“What if I did nothing?” he murmured to the picture. “I will leave you as you are. Move as you will. Jump or run if you can. I’ve had it with you. I will sell you as is.”
Upon finishing his sentence, he seized a thin brush, dipped it in dark purple paint and quickly signed his name. “It’s over, now,” he went on. He locked the studio door, fetched his coat and hat, and started down the muddy path leading to the road which would take him to the village five miles further.
He had a great day. First he went to the local pub for lunch, met up with some of the villagers and listened to the recent news. “Remember Ed? Well, he died two weeks ago. He was the last who remembered the old ways.” The man had sighed and bought a pint for Max, who reciprocated. By the end of the afternoon, tipsy and walking unsteadily back home, he mumbled, shouted, screamed, laughed and cried. “Why did you do this to me? You want me to go mad, don’t you?” He could not have explained to anyone whom he was addressing for he did not know it himself. Was it God, his own self or the figure in the painting? He arrived home around dinner time, went to his room and fell asleep in seconds.
#
He was awake but his eyes remained closed. Wearing a light blue dress, there she was again running through a field, millions of daisies gently bending in the breeze. Once in a while, she’d pick a flower or two. He still could not see her face but could guess she was happy just from the way she was moving. He imagined her smile, her eyes, and her lips. The bouquet in hand, she then disappeared behind the curve of a hill. He opened his eyes and sighed. “I want to see you,” he whispered. He knew what would come next. He would get up and walk to the studio. He’d look at the canvas again, notice some changes and sink into a series of unanswerable questions. He could not put an end to this vicious circle. He looked at the time. Four o’clock in the morning was as good as any other time to get up.
He made his way to the studio. A dim whitish light came through the bay windows he had added years ago to get better lighting. Did he forget to turn them off the night before? He had the clear recollection of coming straight home so he must have left them on the morning before. The night was pitch dark but for the studio. He unlocked the door and turned the knob. As he did, two events occurred simultaneously. First the light went off. Second, he distinctly heard a ruffle in the room. Someone was there. For a few seconds he hesitated. He then entered.
He flipped the switch but nothing happened. Hearing his breathing and aware of his heart now pumping hard, he waited. Nothing was stirring. After a few minutes, he carefully felt his way to the cupboard where he stored emergency candles, took one and lit it with the Zippo lighter he always kept nearby. He walked slowly around the large room but found nothing unusual. He located the breaker box, tried a couple of switches and turned the light knob again. It flooded the room with bright light. As he approached the canvas, he noticed a freshly cut daisy, picked it up and looked at the painting. Her head was turned more to the left so that, for the first time, Max actually could see part of her face and even her eye looking to the human reflection in front of her. There too, changes had occurred. The human shape had taken the traits of a person he could almost recognize, his feeling similar to almost remembering a name or a word but not being able to find it.
The lights went off again. Max took the candle holder and placed it on the table next to the painting. The flame wavered sending shadows through the room. His gaze turned to the painting. Was it the lack of luminosity? It had become blurry and Max saw the woman move.
“What is your name?” Max murmured. The flame flickered one last time and disappeared. The outline of the figure started to glow. An incandescent white radiance emanated from her brightening the room and illuminating Max’s face. Blinded, he raised his hand to protect his eyes.
“Come and follow me,” a warm, rich voice said. Lowering his hand from his face, Max looked at the woman standing a few paces away from him, her hand extended toward him. She wore a light blue dress and held a bouquet of daisies in the other. The moonlight was still scintillating on her hair and shoulders. “Come,” she repeated. He reached for her hand and took it. For the first time in years he was smiling. Both of them gently faded. The painting glowed once again brilliantly illuminating every corner of the studio before total darkness engulfed the room again.
“Come and follow me,” a warm, rich voice said. Lowering his hand from his face, Max looked at the woman standing a few paces away from him, her hand extended toward him. She wore a light blue dress and held a bouquet of daisies in the other. The moonlight was still scintillating on her hair and shoulders. “Come,” she repeated. He reached for her hand and took it. For the first time in years he was smiling. Both of them gently faded. The painting glowed once again brilliantly illuminating every corner of the studio before total darkness engulfed the room again.
#
Maximilian Dorfhauser was never seen again. The police investigated at length but uncovered no trace of foul play. He was declared missing at the following inquest. Everyone in the village had solid evidence when presenting their version of the event. Some believed he had left for a far away island to practice Buddhism. Others swore he had thrown himself in the river during the heavy rains, and the most reasonable patrons were convinced he probably would reappear soon for after all he was “The Gypsy”. For a while, the pub owner sold a few more pints a day. Weeks passed and then months. Max became a vague memory occasionally mentioned in conversations, but, in the art world, much ink was devoted to writing about his life and work, particularly his last signed painting, yet untitled, which a few critics had termed “the most ground breaking work the modern art world has seen in decades”. Joanna Wickworth described it with most passion in an article appearing in Modern Art Monthly: “Dorfhauser displayed sheer genius when painting himself as a mirror reflection while the central figure, silhouetted in the foreground, remains raw canvas untouched by the master’s brush. His almost pubescent naïveté touches the child in us all.”
Many visitors at the Museum of Modern Art in Edinburgh can now view the painting which remains indefinitely on display. No one ever notices a young woman wearing a light-blue dress casually dropping a daisy as she walks by, smiling ironically at the masterpiece.
Chico, California, February 5, 2009
Copyright © 2009 Alain Millon
All rights reserved
